


all matter

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock - above all else and everything - has not seen John for precisely 365 days, over 8765 hours and an extraordinarily unmentionable amount of minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all matter

Sherlock is in Russia; the hairs on his arms stand to attention, freeze, tiny snowflake constellations of ice cling to the curve of his upper lip. He is on the chase; adrenaline, regret, the purely agonising and brilliant thrum of danger greedily snaking through his veins. He is alone; has been for a long time, shall be, for a little longer.

Sherlock - above all else and everything - has not seen John for precisely 365 days, over 8765 hours and an extraordinarily unmentionable amount of minutes.

The maths and equations of the matter serve to pass the time only for whispers. The chase (rather, the unwilling following) is consuming, naturally, physically and mentally challenging, and for that Sherlock is at least a tiny bit thankful. But his hard drive, despite the bitter cold, still whirrs into overdrive, still steals his sleep and steals his life, slow but sure, burning; weathering the very last of him.

To survive, Sherlock accommodates; he imagines, he conjures, he strains and filters through everything   _John_ , data and all, feeds off his apparition.

There’s John Watson in his fingers; the marrow in his bones, steadying a threatening tremor as Sherlock tucks a stolen Browning into his coat. In the cloud of his own forced breaths; there’s acceptance and guidance and light, there’s _Brilliant, Sherlock, amazing_. There’s John, sure and steady and regularly beating the blood underneath his skin. The wrinkles feathering Sherlock’s eyes match those that he can no longer count by sight. He traces the dips and grooves of his own flesh only to feel John’s, alive - _John is alive_ \- in him, because of him, and that’s the all of everything, the sum, the _balance_ and why Sherlock finds himself wanting on several accounts, for things he never intended to do.

Russia’s nights are bitter and long, and Sherlock is - by definition and by actuality - alone; so there is no shame and every right to be had, as he _dreams_ , journeys into the one corner of his palace that’s been collecting dust and spiders and dead skin for years, for lifetimes.

It’s all green, to varying degrees and shades and depths. John is always surrounded by it, and the colour escapes from his pores and his breaths in Sherlock’s dreams, just as it does in reality.

Sometimes he places them both in London, where everything and everyone is grey, muted, distilled and utterly useless - John is bright here, glowing, radiating trueness and delight. In these alternate realties Sherlock gathers data like he’s starving for it, takes all there is to be had - understands the taste of John’s skin on his tongue, the pitch of his voice as it strains from his throat, the crease of his elbows, each muscle in John’s chest and how they quiver under pressure.

Other times, they are far away from madness and instead somewhere new, somewhere unknown and non-existent. They are surrounded by trees and endless countryside, and instead of radiating green John draws it to him, captures it all in the flecks of hazel in his eyes, in the weave of his cotton jumper, in the way he says _Sherlock_ , as if it is the last and only thing he will ever speak.

Sherlock fantasises, and doesn’t care to stop himself (is all too aware what will happen if he does). John is the earth beneath his feet; the grounding point, saving him from careless mistakes and a Russian winter.

Fuck the solar system, indeed - may it long remain deleted - because all planets, all matter and atoms and _the entirety of space_ , orbits John.

Sherlock counts the days after the nights, traces the circles under his eyes and the wounds on his skin, until he can tell John all these things in his loudest words. Make him listen, make him understand, see the wonder and confusion and the wrenching pain in his eyes; horrific, probably, but at least tangible, real.

And maybe, if Sherlock bleeds until he deserves it, John will forgive him.

  


  



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